


Adab ned Orthad Anor

by TAFKAB



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Khuzdul kindly corrected by The Dwarrow Scholar, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Prostitution, Snowbound, Sort of possible dubcon but not really?, Spying, Substitution, The elf may make you cry, clueless characters, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-08 09:23:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6848764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mistakenly believing Legolas has no desire for him, Gimli vanishes into the arms of an <i>utrabu amal</i>.  Legolas's loneliness and curiosity force him to do likewise.</p><p>(I did manage to get the required self-pleasure into chapter ten, but it got much more serious and angsty than I'd planned, and I couldn't work in the prompt's request for Legolas coming on the <i>utrabu amal</i>.  My apologies to all!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Irrealia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Irrealia/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [merryismaytime2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/merryismaytime2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
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> As described in Irrealia's marvelous story _Utrub Amal_, dwarvish society holds a proud and honored place for professionals who specialize in giving pleasure. 
> 
> Legolas discovers this tradition when he and Gimli travel to distant lands together after the War of the Ring. Despairing of ever finding the courage to confess his love to Gimli, the elf visits a dwarvish brothel in a remote settlement of Firebeards where he and Gimli are not known. Expecting to be long gone and forgotten the next day, he pays for the comfort of dreaming of Gimli while touching himself and eventually coming on the utrub amal's long red hair.
> 
> Any variation on this theme would be welcome. I'd also give my firstborn child if Gimli finds out and does something about it.

Over his months of traveling with Gimli, Legolas has learned much.

He has learned the merits of a dozen pipe-weed strains, and types of ale, and how best to kindle a fire in drenching rain. 

He has learned how to braid Gimli’s long torrent of flowing russet hair on the rare occasions when the dwarf takes it down. Only the back; none other than Gimli himself is allowed to touch the beard or to weave the braids he keeps in it. They have meaning, Legolas knows, but he has not learned what that meaning is.

He has learned half a dozen words of Khuzdul, and for a wonder, none of them are place-names. Four are curses. Two of them he knows no meaning for, but he has heard them uttered many times. He hopes they are not curses, for Gimli uses them to mean him, Legolas. Perhaps they mean “elf” or “friend.”

He has come to understand those who think perhaps dwarves carve their get from stone, mining them from the raw ore of the bones of Middle-Earth laid down long ago by Aulë in the first singing. For surely Gimli is bloodless, unless it comes to killing orcs. Then he is as hot-blooded as Legolas himself, and together they have spent their passion many times upon the field of battle.

They have ranged far abroad in their wandering, befriending those goodly folk they meet and scouring orcs from the land wherever they go. Sometimes they can handle the nests alone; other times they seek aid from any who live nearby. 

Always they serve as ambassadors of King Elessar, striving to establish trade and good relations with the Free Peoples they meet on his behalf. 

The settlements in the Ered Mithrin seem much like any others, and Legolas expects nothing out of the ordinary, at first.


	2. Chapter 2

“These folk are descended from the kin of Durin who left Moria and never returned,” Gimli said, leading Legolas down the street into the small settlement they had discovered. “They sent few soldiers to Azanulbizar, and though I have kin here, I know them not, nor do they know me. Their numbers were much reduced by the cold-drakes, and we have had little word from them since that time.” He gazed about. “Yet they are still dwarves. They speak in Khuzdul and use _iglishmêk_. They even have _utrub amal_.” Gimli chuckled wryly. “That is well, for I have a purse full of silver that needs spending.”

Those were new words to add to Legolas’s growing Khuzdul lexicon, and he noted them duly. He knew better than to come right out and ask their meaning.

“I am confused. Are we not short of coin?”

Gimli laughed, long and low, in a rich, earthy tone that shivered up Legolas’s spine and made him flush. He gave no answer, changing the subject instead. “There are many Firebeards here. Look! I believe half the town have red beards as long as my own!” He looked at the sky and frowned at the lowering clouds, heavy with snow. “It is a pity we cannot linger; my father would be pleased if I could find those who are our kinsmen. But winter is too near us, especially in these northern parts of the world. If we tarry we may be trapped here for the season.”

Legolas looked at the township of mingled dwarves and men: narrow, slushy streets, chilly and drab, with forbidding stone buildings and high, pointed roofs to shed the snow. A few scraggly firs stood in dooryards, the only green he could see. He shivered; it would be bitterly cold sleeping inside a stone house—and as an elf, he could not hope to be invited into the mines.

“We must not tarry,” he agreed. He would rather be on the road with Gimli even in the bitter cold. When one set of blankets and a fire were not enough, the dwarf would share his blankets with Legolas. Those nights were a secret, shameful glory: sleeping with Gimli curled close in his arms was both a sweet torture and a rare delight. 

“It is good to see the _utrub amal_ here,” Gimli said quietly, sobering a little, and pointing toward a house with a sign-board that bore a half-circle crowned with spreading rays. “They were a part of our culture in its highest days, and in some places they are no more. There are none yet in Aglarond. But their service is a sacrament to Mahal. They are confidential, professional, and altruistic, and they are badly needed.” He noted Legolas’s confused look and took pity on him.

“They are pleasure workers, Legolas. Perhaps elves have no such thing. Men do, but theirs are treated as if their labors are shameful. How can it be so? It is not that way among my people. There are few dwarf women, and few of my people are able to find or claim one we would have as a lifemate. What then would we do, if not for the _utrub amal?_ ” He raised his hand to a dwarf standing in the door of an establishment, who returned the courtesy. “I will go among them after we have found lodging and see if some may be persuaded to remove to Aglarond.”

And spend the silver in his purse, without doubt. Legolas flushed, understanding suddenly. He turned his face aside, as though examining the pitch of a tall roof and chimney, trying to hide his dismay. Gimli would go and seek pleasure in the arms of a strange dwarf woman, for coin, because he could not find or claim anyone he would willingly choose as a lifemate. It struck bitter ice through his heart. 

Flakes of snow began to spiral down from a leaden sky, landing in his lashes and on his cheeks. 

“There is an inn ahead,” Gimli said, and set out with renewed haste. “A hot dinner will be just the thing!”

Legolas found he was not hungry, but he accepted a loaf with butter and honey and wrapped it in a clean cloth, tucking it away for later. He sipped wine while Gimli ate, listening to him talk. The dwarf was exuberant, pleased with his plans, and when the dinner was finished he went from the common room into the storm and left Legolas to wander out into the snow alone. Near the edge of town he found a niche where he could sit and watch snow swirl down from the sky like a gleaming shower of polished citrine in the torchlight, descending to glimmer in drifts of ephemeral wealth upon the cobbled street.

He roused himself after a time and realized dawn had come while he drifted in reverie. Snow had fallen upon him as he sat still, and he was no more than a drift, featureless, completely covered in fluffy white. The streets were thick with it, and he had only to gaze at the men sinking to their knees as they crunched through the snow to understand that the passes were closed and he and Gimli would not be departing as they had planned.

They would spend the winter among the dwarves and men of the Ered Mithrin, and Gimli could have his fill of the _utrub amal_.

Legolas rose, shaking snow from himself. He had never returned to the inn to take a room, but presumably Gimli had not needed it, and neither had he. He was chilled to the bone, moving slowly, but it took more than cold to kill an elf.

He would have to find Gimli again so they could make arrangements for a longer stay. They would have to work for their keep, but they had done so before. 

Legolas had nowhere else to try to locate Gimli but at the house of the _utrub amal_ , so he turned his steps in that direction, moving with reluctance. He could have run atop the snow, but instead he followed the paths trampled down by men. He did not feel particularly light of foot or of heart. 

He rang the bell and waited as footsteps approached. A red-bearded dwarf peered out, and Legolas was certain she was female, though he had rarely met dwarf women. Her beard was short, neat, and well-trimmed; she wore a dark line of kohl about her eyes. Perhaps this was the very one Gimli— Legolas forced himself not to think it. 

“Pardon me, my lady,” he tried a courteous bow, aware he was shedding snow on her neatly-swept doorstep, uncertain of the proper manners for this situation. “I come seeking my friend Gimli son of Glóin, who said he might pass this way last night.”

“Come in,” she said, with some alarm. “You are half-frozen!”

A commotion ensued as he entered, a tumult of voices rising in consternation to greet the elf in their midst.

“Quiet your complaining!” She responded, tart. “This elf greeted me in politeness. He asked after his friend, and we cannot tell him what he seeks to know, but I will not leave him to die of chill upon our doorstep!”

“I only hope to find him, for we have been separated.” Legolas bowed. “I do not mean to inquire further.”

“Bring him mulled ale,” the dwarf snapped. “He’s wet through and melting all over the rug!” She fussed over him, patting as much of him as she could reach with a strip of linen toweling, and Legolas fidgeted, uneasy. Half a dozen dwarves had entered the parlor where he stood, and one laid down a cloth for him to stand on so he would not spoil the rug. He stepped on it, and gasped when hands began to strip his belt from him.

“Hush. Bare bodies have nothing we haven’t seen, though yours is rather taller than the ones we’re used to.”

Legolas obeyed her instinctively, but his attention was divided. A dwarf strode in bearing the mulled ale, and he was struck by the stranger’s resemblance to Gimli. Almost the same height, he had a powerful muscular build and a long fiery beard. He wore a leather vest and breeches, and his skin was gleaming with sweat. He looked like he had come from a forge, not a boudoir.

Normally Legolas would not have paid the similarity any mind, but given the nature of the establishment, he found himself blushing and staring at his toes. He accepted the hot mug with downcast eyes and polite thanks, but their fingers brushed, and he knew his ears flushed deep crimson.

The madam in charge paused in her nattering, giving Legolas a sidelong, appraising look, and began bustling extra people out of the room. Legolas flushed in an agony of embarrassment and buried his misery in the ale, which was good, as far as ale went—and it was hot in his belly, which growled, reminding him he had eaten nothing since the previous noon. 

“Ginnarr, take the elf to your room and see to his comfort. Begin with food.” She ushered them out firmly, handing Ginnarr Legolas’s wet tunic and boots. “Set his things by the fire to dry and take the best care of him. He is a friend of the lord of Aglarond.”

Then they knew of Gimli. It was all the confirmation he was to receive, though, before Ginnarr led him away—and Legolas followed, perforce, for the dwarf had his clothing. Ginnarr led him to a small, pleasant interior room with a fur rug made from the hide of a great brown bear, a warm fire, and a small dwarf-sized bed piled in blankets. Heavy brocade curtains separated the bed alcove from the rest of the room, half-drawn. Ginnarr laid Legolas’s things out on his hearth, spreading them with care to keep them from wrinkling.

“Remove the rest, and I will go bring food. It will take few minutes; I was halfway through preparing breakfast for everyone. I will finish and bring ours.” 

He did not give Legolas time to demur, leaving rapidly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dwarvish proverb “I have a purse full of silver that needs spending” borrowed from bittersuites on Tumblr!
> 
>  _Iglishmêk_ : Dwarvish language of finger motion and gestures  
>  _Utrub amal_ : Highly honored and respectable organization of dwarvish sex workers


	3. Chapter 3

Legolas removed his breeches, automatic, then grimaced at himself as he laid them out, reluctant to remove his breechclout, but it too was damp. He timidly investigated a wardrobe and found clean linens, so he contrived to wrap a sheet about himself to cover his body and took a seat at the dwarf’s small table. It was too low, uncomfortable, but he made the best of it, waiting with patience, planning his remarks.

“I am sorry. There’s been a misunderstanding,” he began in haste when Ginnarr returned, bearing a heavy tray. Ornate wrought silver lids covered china plates that steamed when Ginnarr lifted them away, revealing hearty portions of eggs and mushrooms and toast, jam and butter, fried ham and potatoes, and a large stoneware jug of cider. Legolas’s stomach rumbled in spite of himself. “I mean no offense or rejection by it, but I did not come to retain the services of an _utrub amal_. I wished only to find my friend.” He hesitated. “That smells good,” he admitted.

Ginnarr laughed at him. “Why you are here is no matter. You are famished. Eat, elf.” 

Legolas did, feeling strangely dislocated, surreal, amazed to find himself sitting in a strange room across the table from a red-bearded dwarf who was not his Gimli, eating breakfast while clad only in a sheet.

“You are no common elf,” Ginnarr commented after a time. “If I may say so. Traveling in company with a dwarf-lord, offering courteous speech to _utrub amal_ …?” He regarded Legolas with calm interest. “Normally your kind do not understand our calling. They do not approve of it; at best, they treat us as if we do not exist. Yet you do not seem to judge. I must confess I have never before seen an elf enter this house, much less one who blushes when touched.” He reached his hand out again and laid it over Legolas’s on the table, and sure enough, Legolas felt himself flush with great embarrassment. 

“I have traveled far with Gimli, through many perils. He is my shield-brother and my dearest friend.” He withdrew his hand politely. “I have learned what I know of dwarvish ways from him.”

Ginnarr poured more cider, nodding. “I thought as much.” He offered no further information, eating and drinking more neatly than Legolas was accustomed to see from a dwarf. “The snow has caught you unawares, I would guess; you will be here for a time. Have you yet found lodging in the town?”

“No,” Legolas confessed with a rueful look at his wet clothes. 

“The inns will drain your purse rapidly in return for indifferent service and poor food. You should find a private lodging where you may board instead.” Ginnarr ran through the names of several possibilities, then noted them down in crisp runes: Cirth, unknown to Legolas. Gimli would doubtless be able to read it, though he would want to know where Legolas came by such a thing. Legolas blushed again.

Ginnarr paused and smiled on him. 

“It will be a considerable wait before your clothes are dry. Perhaps we may occupy that time pleasantly together.”

Legolas surged to his feet in alarm, clutching the sheet around him so frantically that Ginnarr dissolved into a rolling laugh. “Be calm, elf. I do not bite unless asked—and paid. What is your name?”

“Legolas,” he confessed with his eyes cast down, as if it were a great secret. “It means green leaf, in Westron.” 

“I will call you _Danakhinjam_ ,” Ginnarr said, and reached to tug him back to his seat once more. “We have few of those in these parts. Sit.” He went to the cabinet to pull out a square of hard pale wood carved in a grid of smaller squares and a smaller wooden box that rattled. “My duties are done until time to prepare noon-meal. Let us have a game.”

Ginnarr laid down the board and set pieces upon it. “This game is called _tafl_. Have you played before? No? Then I will teach you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Danakhinjam_ : Greenleaf (Khuzdul kindly corrected by The Dwarrow Scholar)
> 
>  _Tafl_ : Tafl was a very popular game among the Vikings. One player aims to get his king from the center of the board to the edges, while the other does everything he can to capture him. Tafl spread across Europe (just like Viking genes) and became the chess of its day; noblemen would boast of their skill on the board. Tafl was the inspiration for the game Thud, played in Terry Pratchett’s _Discworld_ series.


	4. Chapter 4

Legolas stayed until mid-afternoon, dressing before Ginnarr was satisfied his clothing had dried enough to wear out into the cold, but eventually he would be delayed no more and departed, leaving coin in exchange for the hospitality he had received. He left Ginnarr with a courteous farewell, treading soft and light atop the drifts. 

“That was a strange visitor indeed,” Ginnarr reported to Bergfrið, Mistress of the House. “He would not be enticed to lie with me, but not, I think, for lack of wanting. We played _tafl_.”

“Aye.” She drummed her fingers on the windowsill, thoughtful. “We will see him again, I judge. Both of them. They need careful handling. Did you see the lord of Aglarond with his choice?”

“I did not. I was at the stoves.”

“He picked one of the men from the house across the way.” She gave him a sly grin. “Slim. Blond.”

Ginnarr raised his eyebrows thoughtfully. “They would do well to avoid the middleman and save their coin.”

“Will you, with an elf?”

Ginnarr shrugged. “He seems a decent sort. We are not called to this profession to pick and choose among our clients. That is not our way.”

“Good lad.”


	5. Chapter 5

Legolas did not mean to return to the _utrub amal_ , truly he did not. But there was not much to do other than hunting orcs for bounty, and that was possible only when it was not actively snowing. He thought of purchasing a board for _tafl_ so he and Gimli might play, but he did not know what to say if Gimli asked where he had learned of it. 

Besides, Gimli could rarely be persuaded to sit still, always finding excuses to leave their shared room and its single bed. Legolas had it to himself more often than not, and lay alone thinking melancholy thoughts. 

Finally, about a week after his first inadvertent visit with Ginnarr, he arose as soon as Gimli made his exit and followed the dwarf through town, remaining at a clandestine distance-- prudently aloft on the rooftops, where he would not likely be caught following.

Sure enough, Gimli went straight to the establishment, showing no sign of furtiveness or shame, knocking and obtaining admission immediately.

He did not go to the house where Legolas had met Ginnarr, which gave the elf a moment of pause, but more than one house showed the same distinctive rune inscribed on its sign. The one Gimli entered was one of them. Perhaps it was where his preferred consort lodged.

Legolas stared at the house, forlorn, wondering what Gimli’s consort might be like. There seemed little way to find out, and little point in contemplation. Instead, he waited for a few minutes to ensure Gimli would not emerge again before dropping into an alley, soundless, and approaching the door of his own choice.

“Come right in, good elf. At your service,” a young, dark dwarf bowed, obviously not particularly surprised to see him. “I will take you to Ginnarr’s room.” Very well, not surprised at all. Legolas winced and mumbled his thanks, red-faced. He was glad when the young dwarf departed. 

“ _Danakhinjam_ ,” Ginnarr greeted him presently, still wiping flour off his hands. “I have wondered when you would return for a rematch at _tafl_.” He clicked his fingers and a pair of dwarves carried in a heavy tray laden with various sweetmeats and a small cask of drink. He supervised as they quickly set the table and left. “Perhaps a cup or two of wine will improve your skill!”

Legolas found himself laughing before he knew it and relaxed. “You are much like my friend,” he murmured, and took the offered cup. “He too would try to get me the worse for drink before play. Then he would suggest we wager on the outcome of the contest!”

“Will you wager?” Ginnarr chuckled, setting up the board as Legolas poured wine for them both. 

“I will not,” Legolas returned immediately. “You will have to find an elf who has spent far less time in the company of a dwarf if you wish to win such a wager.”

They played then, and Ginnarr beat him handily, chuckling and rubbing his beard. “You have potential. It may take you a tidy few years to develop it, mind.” He stood up easily, leaving the board, and stepped behind Legolas. “Still, I suppose you have them to spare.” His heavy hands fell easily on Legolas’s shoulders and began to knead. “I could tell you are an archer even if you did not carry your bow. Your shoulders feel like stone.” He clucked his tongue, matter-of-fact, holding Legolas easily in his seat when he flinched and would have moved away. 

“You are paying for my time. Should the both of us not enjoy it?” 

Legolas sat in burning confusion, liking the touch, but feeling guilty for allowing it. 

“There is no disloyalty in visiting _utrub amal_ unless you are betrothed or wed.” Ginnarr murmured, pressing deeper, urging his muscles to relax. “Our service is a sacrament to Mahal, providing ease for those who cannot seek it elsewhere. So few dwarves can be with their Ones. We are here to stand for those Ones.” Strong fingers circled at Legolas’s nape, and he sighed, relaxing despite himself, his chin tipping up. His breath had become shallow and quick. “Or we are here for those who have no One. The body needs breath, food, wine, shelter… touch. This is no more shame than that.”

Legolas realized he was on the verge of bitter tears despite his arousal, whether from Ginnarr’s kindness or his own grief that Gimli had never expressed any desire to touch him so. He struggled against it, but felt himself losing.

“Weep if you need, _Danakhinjam_.” Ginnarr did not stop touching him as the first tears rolled. “It is not an insult to me; it is a proof your love runs deep. I am here to share and ease the sorrow.”

True to his word, Ginnarr comforted Legolas as he wept, massaging his back and speaking gently to him. Legolas did not want more, and the dwarf seemed to understand, letting him rest instead of pressing him. Legolas finally departed, sober and subdued.


	6. Chapter 6

That night Legolas sat and ate with Gimli, who seemed cheerful enough for them both, but went out for ale instead of remaining in to talk with him. Legolas sat on the edge of the bed, wondering whether Gimli had truly gone to an inn for drink, or if he had returned to the _utrub amal_. He shook his head slowly. Had he truly been reduced to this, as if he were a jealous housewife of a Man, waiting for his mate to return from the stews?

Gimli returned before midnight, ale on his breath and news on his lips. “I have been invited within the mines to meet the king, Legolas! I depart tomorrow, and will have parley with him as Aragorn’s ambassador. ….I regret I may not bring you, but I judge it best not to press. They may allow you, in time. I will use this first visit to lay the groundwork.”

“I will wait for you here, then,” Legolas said, but as he watched Gimli’s excitement, he knew he would not suffer the wait alone. “When will you return? I will be glad to greet you.”

“A fortnight hence,” Gimli said. “There are ceremonies to be observed. Truly, you would be bored by them.”

Legolas nodded slowly, feeling fey and unhappy. Suddenly resolved, he rose from his chair and set aside his book. “You are covered with snow.” He reached for the hem of his tunic and drew it off himself in a swift motion, baring his chest and belly to Gimli, though he had always been modest before. “There is a fine fire and I am warm, but you look very cold.” He kicked off his low boots, then hooked his thumbs into the waist of his breeches and pushed them down, standing only in his smallclothes, refusing to be bashful. “Take off your wet things and come to bed, and I will warm you.” His heart thundered, his mouth dry. He went to the bed and drew back the coverlet, then sat and laid his hand on the sheets beside him, indicating where he wished Gimli might come to sit. 

Gimli stood staring at him in shock, looking very like a deer set at bay by wolves. “I cannot,” he blustered, his panic obvious. “I must return to make the final arrangements; I came only to tell you I have achieved our aim.” He backed away, fumbling for the latch. “I may be some time. Do not wait for me.”

Then he was gone, leaving a gush of cold air to rush over Legolas, who sat very still, staring at the closed door. His eyes were dry and he made no sound, but his lips narrowed and went white.

He arose presently and picked his clothing up from the floor, folding it with care, taking the long tunic he usually wore for sleeping and putting it on. Then he extinguished the lights and went to the cold bed alone, turning his back to the door. 

He had little to say when Gimli returned after breakfast the next morning, glowing with ruddy health and relaxation-- not smelling of ale at all. It was quite clear to the elf where he had been. Legolas had offered himself, but rather than accept him, Gimli had sought the lover he preferred. Legolas had expected no better after the long months with no sign of desire from his friend, but he had needed to be certain before he acted.

Legolas thought with longing of the spring thaw, resolving to cut short his travels with Gimli and return to Ithilien to see how his colony of Silvan elves fared there. He could be of use among them as they worked at coaxing the abused land back to fruition. Then in autumn he thought he might accompany a group southward on the river and take to the sea. Of the two longings that tore his heart, that one, at least, he might have. 

Silent and withdrawn, he went with Gimli to watch his friend join the group of dwarves who had come to escort him into the mountain to meet with their king.

When they had departed, he lifted his chin and turned, walking deliberately through the streets without detour until he stood before the house of the _utrub amal_. He knocked boldly and went inside.


	7. Chapter 7

For a wonder Legolas had come between meals, and Ginnarr was not busy, coming to the parlor at once to greet him in person and leading him back through the corridor to his room, where Legolas stooped to go in and seated himself, hardly daring to look the dwarf in the eye.

“I have thought on your words.” Legolas swallowed, fearful. Perhaps even Ginnarr would reject him now. “And it is clear my-- my beloved has no desire for me.” He knew Ginnarr would know who he meant. Shame flushed his cheeks. “Only last night I offered myself in vain. Yet I have loved him dearly and long, and my flesh aches for him.” 

Ginnarr frowned, shaking his head, but Legolas could not stop until he had finished.

“I wish to know how it might have been between us, if his heart had turned toward me.” Legolas raised his gaze to Ginnarr’s at last. “You are much like him,” he said quietly. “As I think you know. Will you show me?”

Ginnarr stood and bowed. “I will remake my braids so they are like his,” he said. “And you may ask whatever you wish of me. If I can, I will give it.” His hands began to work, sectioning his beard and his hair for braiding.

“Let us go slowly,” Legolas said. “I would not make haste. There is the whole winter to be got through before I may leave and return to my people. These are to be my only memories of how it might have been, and though they will be bittersweet I mean to savor them.” He looked quietly at Ginnarr.

“He often calls me elf, and uses the words _bâha_ or _buhel_ at times. I think they are endearments of a sort.” Legolas swallowed hard. “I know not what they mean, for he has ever avoided my questions about your tongue. I have assumed they mean ‘friend.’”

“They do.” Ginnarr sounded gruff. “Friend and friend of friends-- what men would call their best of friends.”

Legolas nodded, with a sad, fond smile. “Would that I were content to be called so.” He glanced away, unable to meet Ginnarr’s kindly gaze. 

“We will yet play _tafl_ as friends, you and I, I hope-- as Ginnarr and _Danakhinjam_. I would like that. But when that is done, I would ask you to lower the lights and do not speak more than you must after you come to me. So that….” He gestured, cheeks flushing with shame. 

“So I may seem more like him in your bed. That is not amiss.” Ginnarr smiled on him kindly, finishing the braidings of his beard and beginning to make the long tail down his neck. 

“May I touch your hair?” Legolas waited for his nod. “Your beard?” His voice fell to a whisper, and he was ashamed to hear it quiver.

“Yes.” Ginnarr agreed. “I am pleased you respect me enough to ask.”

“He will let me braid his hair, but I know I must never touch his beard.” Legolas laughed without humor. “He chided me once when I caught him by it, though he would have fallen to his death if I had not!”

“I am not surprised.” Ginnarr huffed soft laughter. “He must have a bit of Longbeard in his father-tree. They’re terribly touchy about such things.” He tied off his braid and added hair clasps. “How would you like to begin?”

“Kisses.” Legolas found himself unable to lift his gaze from his fingers, which he knotted together in uncharacteristic nervous agitation. 

“Bring me a bit of his pipe-weed next time, and I will make certain I taste right,” Ginnarr murmured, and approached him. He laid a gentle hand on Legolas’s. “I’ll just see to the lights. You won’t fit comfortably on my bed. Perhaps we should use the rug, instead.”

Ginnarr blew out the lamps and settled a pierce-work screen over the fire, making the room very dim, then came to Legolas, sitting down at his side.

Legolas felt himself trembling as the _utrabu amal_ laid a gentle hand on his cheek. He looked very like Gimli indeed in the low light, a dim glow catching in the edges of his hair and beard. 

Then his mouth softly found Legolas’s. After a few moments of shy awkwardness, Legolas let himself fade into bittersweet, yearning pleasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Bâha_ : Friend  
>  _Buhel_ : Friend of friends  
>  _Utrabu amal_ : Singular of utrub amal


	8. Chapter 8

The next days resolved themselves slowly into a blur of mingled sweetness and sorrow. When Legolas proved too self-conscious to relax, Ginnarr served him a tea that had a mild sedative effect, blurring the edges of reality just enough that he could arch eagerly and cry out his pleasure and whimper for Gimli without being so humiliated he could not continue after hearing his own words. 

Ginnarr made a most convincing Gimli even without the tea, Legolas had to confess. Lying on the softness of the bearskin, with hard, callused hands teasing ecstasy from Legolas's skin-- his belly, his nipples, his ears, his cock...! Tasting the sweetness of Shire pipeweed, kissing past a bristly mustache, feeling the wealth of fire-red hair caressing his face and chest, Legolas could almost be happy, could almost forget it was only an illusion. The wiry hair on Ginnarr’s body, the steel-stern power of his arms and legs… it was everything Legolas’s body craved, leaving only his heart to mourn. 

And yet afterward, as lust ebbed slowly, leaving him looking up into the shadowed recess of the low ceiling with his lover’s weight hot and heavy over him, not at all unpleasant but still not quite what he needed, Legolas knew he deceived himself. He became ever more aware of the bitterness in the dregs of the cup he was slowly draining. It was as if he sought the drunkenness of wine in endless flagons of water. It quenched his body, but never touched the true thirst at the heart of him. 

He began to understand that if he had to continue for long years in Middle Earth without the love of Gimli to sustain him, he would surely fade. Perhaps that was why elves had no _utrub amal_ of their own. Ginnarr was kind and good, and Legolas grew to care for him as a friend… but he was not Gimli, and therefore he was not enough.

The end of Gimli’s sojourn would come, and then in a few weeks more the sun would return and melt the passes. Even now Legolas might leave if he wished. In hunting for bounties, he had driven nearly all the nearby orcs into hiding, making them fear his bow. They would not dare attack him. He could endure the cold, and he would not sink into the snow. 

If he could have been sure Gimli would not follow out of misguided friendship, he would arise now and leave this place behind him for ever.

He petted Ginnarr’s hair, which he had loosened so he might caress it, and stroked his fingers through the soft red beard. 

“Tomorrow you should have me,” he spoke quietly, not quite breaking the pretense between them, but he knew their time neared its tender, regretful end. When Gimli returned aboveground, Legolas would make the necessary excuses and ensure his friend would not endanger himself by following. Then he would travel south at speed. 

Perhaps he would not bother to stop in Ithilien at all. He would have word sent to Thranduil when he passed Lothlórien, and would ride with traders down the Great River to Pelargir. Then if he could not find a ship of his people, he would purchase a boat of his own and sail past the Bay of Belfalas, setting his course east to find the straight road. 

Legolas smiled faintly, his fingertips stroking gently over warm skin and thick, curling red hair. 

“You are pensive, _Danakhinjam_.” Ginnarr was a keen observer; he could tell Legolas no longer pretended. 

“I think of the future,” he confessed. “And I make my plans. It has been pleasant here with you, Ginnarr. I thank you for the gift I am given in your arms.” 

Ginnarr nodded without surprise, wiser than Legolas in the ways of the heart, perhaps having seen this moment coming from their first minutes together. “I will miss your visits, _Danakhinjam_. And I will not share your secrets, but I must confess, I will go down in the annals of the _utrub amal_ for being chosen to serve one of the eldar. Such a thing has never happened before, nor perhaps will it occur again.”

“Let us play another game of _tafl_ before you have to begin the supper, and I will go back to my lodging. I will return again tomorrow,” Legolas promised, and they rose to dress, sitting opposite one another and setting out the pieces on the board. Legolas still could not win against his opponent, but had at least learned enough of strategy that the game lasted for an hour before he was defeated.

He went to his lodging and ensured it was ready for Gimli’s return; the dwarf was due back two mornings hence. He laid in a good supply of firewood and ale, folding extra woolen blankets he had bought for the bed. It was now the heart of the winter, and it was as cold within the stone dwelling as Legolas had once feared it might become. He would not have Gimli suffer in his absence.

Then he sat down in the room’s single chair so he might leave the bed crisp and neat for Gimli’s use, and slipped into reverie as he watched the dancing flames on the hearth and waited until he might return to Ginnarr for what would doubtless be the final time.


	9. Chapter 9

Gimli left the warm darkness of the mines at daybreak, displeased to find even more snow than he had left behind when he went belowground. The sky was dull, leaden gray, spitting bitter flakes of ice that stung his cheeks. He had enjoyed his time with the dwarves belowground, and they had feasted him royally, giving him plenty of good meat and ale and fine companionship. 

He was proud of his work on the new agreement. He had negotiated a good foundation for trade between the Grey Mountains and Gondor, as well, though he had not quite dared insist on including Legolas’s reception as an ambassadorial emissary in the terms. Things had been going so well he hesitated to risk the deal by introducing such a controversial demand.

Nevertheless, he looked forward to seeing his friend again; he had missed the elf while he was below in the mines, and he had struggled not to think of Legolas so much he faltered in his attention to the negotiations. 

He swallowed hard, the memory assaulting him again, bewitching his mind and boiling his blood. Legolas, bare and sleek and sitting on their bed, asking him to strip down and come to be warmed…! Gimli swallowed hard, feeling the hot surge of desire in his body, which had been quivering with bright lust for nearly two weeks in the wake of that night. 

In the innocence of his friendship, the elf could not have known how the sight had driven Gimli half-mad with desire. It had been all he could do not to pounce, not to offend his friend by leaping on him and ravishing him then and there.

Gimli sighed. But Legolas did not want that; he had ignored all Gimli’s attempts at courtship, accepting beads with thanks, but not placing them in his hair, taking hand-made tokens of regard and returning none of his own. The message was clear: he wished only for friendship between them.

Perhaps the elf was still in reverie and Gimli might surprise him by arriving a day early, sitting at his side to wake him, building up the fire for him and sitting with him to break their fast together. Then if it turned fine, they might go out hunting orcs together, and come back to spend the evening with ale and song in an inn before sleep.

No, he would not go to the _utrub amal_ , at least not at once, and not tonight, either, even though that likely meant he would spend a wakeful night lying at the elf’s side. He could not wait to feel the elusive warmth of their bodies pressed together-- if only back to back, so he might hide his unwanted arousal. Even though Legolas desired him not, he had missed the elf. His smile, his voice, his scent... even his singing. 

Gimli slung his axe over his shoulder and plodded through the snow, humming to himself. He glanced up to ensure he was about to take the correct turning-- and stopped, seeing a glimpse of Legolas passing, graceful blond hair floating on the sharp breeze. Where might he be going so early?

Curious, Gimli turned aside, abruptly glad of the drifts that towered over his head. The trampled slot paths concealed him effectively, far better than the much taller elf.

Legolas moved with purpose, and Gimli had to move fast to follow, risking discovery, but Legolas was not thinking of pursuit, and never looked behind himself as his feet led him with rapid surety to… the house of the _utrub amal_.

Gimli stopped at the edge of the square and stared with disbelief as the elf tapped at the door of the Dwarrow house and was let in with swift courtesy….

And did not emerge again at once. In fact, not at all.

Gimli stirred at last, aware that his feet were growing cold, water from a slushy puddle seeping through at the seams between the tough but worn leather and the heavy sole. His fingers had wrapped themselves around the haft of his axe without his knowledge, and the knuckles were white. 

He stalked forward, growling, and kicked the door open without pausing to turn the knob. 

“Where is my One?!” He bellowed at the startled young lad on door duty, who threw one terrified look at him and took to his heels, shouting for Bergfrið. Gimli did not delay in waiting for her to be fetched, stalking down the nearest hallway.

He kicked open another door and found himself facing a startled kitchen staff, two young males and a female, with the master of the kitchens behind them, holding a cleaver.

“Stand aside, lads. I’ll talk to him.” The burly cook did not set the cleaver down. “Calm yourself, son of Glóin.” He held the cleaver at his side, not an immediate threat, and advanced with one palm up, a sign of peace. “Your elf is not with a host. He waits.” 

The dwarf lifted his chin, and Gimli scowled at him, not cooling down even a little, but still able to listen. 

“He waits,” the dwarf swallowed, and Gimli marked his knuckles moving as his fist tightened around the hilt of the cleaver. “For me.”

Gimli did not speak, eyes narrowing. “Why does he wait?”

“You know I may not speak of it, by code of the guild.” The dwarf stepped forward-- a Firebeard like Gimli himself, his very refusal to discuss it confirming Gimli’s fears: Legolas had come for lovemaking. And yet, Gimli hesitated.

“Tell me, son of Glóin. When choosing your host, did you seek the features of one you desired?” The cook lifted his brows, waiting.

Gimli lowered his axe-- halfway-- and snarled. “Speak plainly.” The dwarf he faced was all but a mirror of himself. Surely this could not be Legolas’s chosen host. And yet he said the elf awaited him!

“Buri, you will have to supervise the cooking and serve this meal,” the dwarf advanced, cautious. “My Lord of Aglarond, accompany me to a more private place, if you would.”

Gimli let himself be backed out of the kitchen and down the hall one door, where he and the cook entered a parlor. The _utrabu amal_ shut the door behind them, setting a lamp in a sconce on the wall. 

“Here we may talk, until Bergfrið duplicates your method of opening doors.” He set the cleaver aside at last, nodding to Gimli’s axe. “What is your justification for interfering with the rightful business of the _utrub amal?_ Have you a contract to enforce? Has an oath been broken?”

Gimli swallowed, suddenly aware of his folly; by dwarvish law he could be harshly punished for his unthinking intrusion. At the very least, his treaty with the king would be annulled, and relations between Ered Mithrin and Gondor damaged. He had no claim on the elf. None.

“Not an oath.” His voice tasted harsh and unfamiliar, rasping in his throat. “Nor a contract.”

“A heart, then. Perhaps two.” The cook sighed. “I am Ginnarr. I must say I have wondered at you, my lord. I could not help but notice your chosen host bears passing similarity to your friend, the elf. Given my client’s choice… surely some great mistake has been made that sends the two of you here to us, seeking what you should already have together.” 

“The elf chose you for our likeness; you taunt me with it.” Gimli growled. He dropped his axe to his side and stepped near Ginnarr, scowling suddenly at his beard. His hand rose to finger his own braids; Ginnarr wore their like. “You wear my braids!”

“I may say nothing of my clients.” Ginnarr reached deliberately into his pocket. He withdrew a twist of cloth and unwound it, revealing a bit of Longbottom Leaf. “Fine stuff, is it not?”

Gimli’s eyes narrowed again. Leaf of his own preferred sort-- the _utrub amal_ knew their business well. “Where is he? Tell me, or I will burst into every room I must until I find him.”

“You will not pry that information from me by threat of violence, not even with your axe.” Ginnarr gave him a lopsided smile, half kind and half fierce. “But perhaps if I were persuaded you were able and willing to aid my client’s well-being, I could accommodate you.”

Gimli swallowed hard, and laid his axe over a cask of ale, forcing himself to calm. “Please. Take me to him, that I may mend this great mistake we have made.” He heard the pleading in his voice, and flushed with embarrassment, but stood firm. 

“You are just in time, I judge. I have expected him to flee southward for nearly a week.” Ginnarr stepped near Gimli, surveying him critically. “Perhaps he awaited your return for fear you would pursue him and be lost.” He tapped Gimli’s chest. “You must remove your armor and arms. None may go with weapons in this house. When you are ready I will take you to him, and the two of you must make your own peace.” 

“He tried me before I left,” Gimli realized suddenly, half-staggered. “He meant to entice me, but I was too foolish to see it.”

Ginnarr harrumphed.

“But he did not wear my bead or return my gifts!”

“How should an elf know to do such things?” Ginnarr watched as Gimli peeled away his armor. 

“Perhaps you should let your bodies talk first and your mouths wait until later,” Ginnarr sighed. “He will believe you are me at first, if you choose to be silent. The room is dim. I have given him our strongest calming tea; he understands its effects.”

Gimli scowled, then sighed. He knew of such artifices. “I should have known he would have to have it. What else should I know?”

Ginnarr was quiet for a long moment, and through the door they could hear Bergfrið making her way down the corridor in a huff, inspecting the trail of destruction Gimli had wrought. 

“She will let herself be appeased by your position if you agree to pay in full for the damages,” Ginnarr advised hastily. “I will manage her if you allow it, while you take care of what is truly important.”

“Aye,” Gimli grimaced. It would likely mean the rest of the winter hunting orcs for bounty, but he would make things square.

“Let us go, then.” Ginnarr surveyed him with a sigh. "Care well for _Danakhinjam_ , son of Glóin."

Gimli drew up sharply, affronted. "You have named him?"

Ginnarr faced him squarely, unabashed. "Aye," he said simply. "You must blame your own carelessness that you did not do so long since."

Gimli's eyes flared with anger, then with regret. "Aye," he said shortly. "It seems I have neglected much I should have attended."

He led Gimli down the hall, shushing Bergfrið with a grand gesture. “It is a matter of a client,” he fussed, and held her off with a few flashes of _iglishmêk_. He led Gimli to a door and they stopped beside it. 

“He waits within.” Ginnarr gave the door an anxious look, not without fondness for the elf. “May Mahal guide you rightly.”


	10. Chapter 10

Gimli hesitated, gave Ginnarr a sharp nod, and opened the door, slipping inside and shutting it fast behind him.

The lights were indeed dim, but his dark-trained senses adapted swiftly, letting him behold Legolas. The elf lay waiting in the darkness, reclining on a great bearskin rug that cushioned the floor. He had removed his tunic, and the faint glow from the fire cast deep shadows over his body. He still wore his breeches, but the laces were loosened and he had slid his hand inside. Gimli watched, mouth dry, as that hand moved, sliding slowly over Legolas’s cock. 

He must have heard Gimli enter, but he did not respond at once, his head still turned half-away, his hand moving in smooth, patient strokes. A clean smell of mint suffused the room, mostly covering an unpleasant note of valerian, and he spied a pot of tea sitting next to a mug on the table. He could make out poppy, too, enough that it made him frown. The tea was very strong.

Legolas shifted, hips lifting, dragging Gimli’s mind away from rational thought. The elf moved like a dream of sin, long pale limbs and sleek hair bathed in dim firelight. A flare of fierce envy shot through Gimli as he thought of his own long absence, and of Ginnarr entering this room to find Legolas awaiting him. 

Legolas shifted again, restless, his eyes seeking Gimli in the shadows. He swallowed thickly and stepped forth, putting himself between the elf and the fire so the faint light would cast him in silhouette rather than gathering on his face. Legolas smiled up, sweet and welcoming, but somehow so sad it broke Gimli’s heart. How had he failed to see such sadness?

He knelt and set his hand on the elf, apologetic and hesitant, fingertips tracing a slow crescent over the smooth, taut-muscled belly. Legolas arched into the touch, purring softly, and stopped his self-pleasure, reaching lazily to draw Gimli down into a kiss.

The elf tasted of mint and honey, moving with languid grace and sensual ease, well-accustomed to kissing. Gimli couldn’t help but moan, struggling not to crush Legolas to him in haste, not to devour him whole. 

Everything he wanted, within his grasp at last….

Gimli forced himself to go slowly. He slid his palms over Legolas’s smooth skin, feeling the spring and strain of wiry muscle moving underneath. Legolas stretched, arching; his tongue darted sweetly into Gimli’s mouth. But there was still something wrong; he was still less ardent and eager than Gimli would have envisioned him: indolent, languid, slow to warm, like a fire set in wet wood. 

Gimli pulled back and began again, kissing a slow, open-mouthed trail over his collarbones. He nuzzled his way up the elf’s long neck, nibbling at one earlobe, and Legolas rewarded him with a gasp, clutching him hard. “Gimli!” He whimpered, pleading. He lifted his hands, fingers threading into Gimli’s beard, stroking gently.

Gimli froze in panic for a moment, thinking himself caught-- but Legolas only whimpered again, pushing up for more. It was all a pretense. He gave another tender kiss, heart aching. 

He knew what he had to do.

He pulled himself away reluctantly, sparing a moment for a last, lingering look at the elf spread out before him like a treasure for the claiming, pure pale beauty against the soft dark luxury of the bear’s skin, aroused and willing, face soft with pleasure.

With trembling hands Gimli folded back the fire-screen and knelt there, waiting, penitent, as the light revealed him.

Legolas frowned in confusion for a long moment, then emotions flickered across his face in a rapid progression-- shock, shame, guilt, regret, lust-- and settled at last into something hard and closed, determined.

He rose slowly, sinuous and graceful, leashed power evident in every motion. Gimli held very still, his heart pounding in his throat. Legolas’s eyes held his, stormy and half-lidded, and he reached out with one long hand, careful and deliberate, knotting it to a fist in Gimli’s tunic. 

Gimli held his ground, swallowing heavily, as Legolas’s stare burned through him for a moment that seemed to freeze in time, making careful note first of his blown pupils, then studying the nervous way his tongue flicked out to dampen his lips, finally resting on the solid ridge of his cock, trapped against his thigh, uncomfortably tight inside his breeches. 

Legolas spoke no questions, made no accusations. His muscles contracted, a sudden flex and pull. Gimli hit the floor, his head thumping painfully against the stone through the fur, six feet of furious, lustful elf falling to cover him.

Legolas’s mouth drove against his savagely, forcing his lips open, tongue pushing inside aggressively. His hands caught Gimli’s wrists, forcing them to the floor beside his head, and he held him pinioned, kissing him fiercely, plundering his mouth.

Gimli could only moan and open for him, accepting everything, both just punishment and undeserved blessing. Legolas jerked his clothing from him with frantic, passionate haste, delivering biting kisses to Gimli’s chest as he forced down his breeches, then tore off his boots by brute force and sent them sailing into the shadows to thump against a wall. Something shattered, glass shards crashing to the floor, but Legolas ignored it. 

Then the elf put him down and struggled out of his own breeches, eyes never leaving Gimli. He tossed them away, too, and reached out again, stroking his fingertips over Gimli’s chest-- cataloging his ritual tattoos and the steel hoop that pierced his nipple, then testing the texture of the wiry hair that led in a thick trail past his navel and down to his cock, where more metal gleamed. 

Gimli cried out wildly as the elf tasted him without hesitation, licking his cock then taking it deep, strong hands lifting him from the floor and into warm heat. Legolas sucked him, head bobbing, long wicked strokes that left him quivering on the verge of coming, but the elf was not ready for that and let him go before he could, the cool air tingling on his wet flesh. Gimli flung his arm over his eyes, struggling against the need to come; Legolas paused the exploration for a moment and reached over him.

A cork popped and liquid gurgled, then Legolas’s hands touched him anew-- slick with oil, warm from sitting next to the fire. 

Oiled hands skated between his thighs, parting them, and Gimli trembled as he lay on his back, knowing then what the elf intended. 

Legolas’s slick fingers parted him and sought their goal, finding it, circling. More oil trickled down, heedless of the bearskin. Gimli made a soft sound, vulnerable, almost frightened, and the elf’s gaze darted up to his face, eyes wild, that fey, fierce look still on him.

He had never let himself be taken by another male, but he allowed Legolas to continue without demur, letting himself be moved as the elf willed. It was penance of a sort-- but being opened like this, being made ready for Legolas’s possession, was also the most arousing sensation he had ever felt. Helpless to stay silent he made the sound again, lifting his hips to show willing. For a second he glimpsed sweetness in those burning eyes; this was not all rage, then.

That made it easier to submit, to lie back and moan out his fear, his desire, and his surrender as he let Legolas press a finger inside his body. His flesh tightened, unwilling at first, but Legolas was patient, breathing hard but moving slowly, with unexpected kindness. 

Gimli could only imagine how he looked, and he flushed with sudden shame, but Legolas did not share his dismay, gazing with rapt attention at his own finger sinking deep inside Gimli’s body. Slowly he added another, and Gimli heard himself begin to whimper, his voice filling the chamber with low, growling moans. 

“You will wait as I have waited,” Legolas told him sharply, but his voice trembled, taut with desire, and his fingers crooked, touching something unexpected within Gimli’s body. 

Gimli yelped, startled, and Legolas smiled, wicked, and did it again, repeating the subtle caress over and over until Gimli was driven half-mad with desire, moaning and pleading so desperately he did not know himself. His cock dripped on his belly, balls drawn so tight he thought he might explode, but he could not come; it was not enough. 

Then the fingers were gone and Gimli’s eyes flew open, afraid to find he was being teased and abandoned-- only to see the elf holding his oil-slick cock to steady it, biting his lip. He bore witness as Legolas thrust slowly inside him, eyes closing and chin lifting, mouth falling open, his hair spilling in a gleaming torrent over his pale shoulders.

Legolas spared a moment for him to settle, the virgin muscle spasming about the new intrusion-- not long enough before Legolas began to fuck him, nudging that sweet spot again, making Gimli arch from the floor in a desperate bow, digging his fingers into the thick hide of the bear. 

Legolas moved slowly, steadily, setting a merciless pace, dragging his cock back and forth over the sensitive spot inside Gimli until Gimli was dripping with sweat, hoarse from begging, and the elf’s own blond hair clung to his chest and back-- and still he moved, tireless, holding himself back with inhuman endurance, adding more oil as it was needed, tweaking Gimli’s nipple ring to drive him to a renewed frenzy.

The elf slowed gradually, resisting orgasm, his breath growing ragged, until he barely moved, maintaining the slightest constant pressure within Gimli, who struggled, tightening himself in desperation, writhing for what he needed to come. Legolas’s hands turned hard on his body, holding him down with fierce, inexorable strength; his eyes opened, the dark pupil all but eclipsing the blue iris, and he stared down at Gimli as if surprised anew to find him there. 

The fire had burned low, and it lit him in shades of russet and deep amber and tarnished bronze, gleaming highlights on his wet skin. Incomprehensible beauty, and still that terrible edge of pain in him, that sadness, that coldness yet unwarmed.

Gimli looked up and perceived it, half blind with sweat and tears stinging his eyes; he reached out to set his palm against the elf’s cheek. “Legolas,” he whispered, voice broken and soft with regret, and ran his trembling thumb over the softness of the elf’s lower lip.

Legolas gazed down at him, capturing the thumb, and suckled it, his tongue flicking against its pad. When he moved again, he moved hard, fucking Gimli fiercely, and his hand curled around Gimli’s needy, aching cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.

Legolas drove them to completion, strokes growing unsteady, stuttered and ragged, his body pushing deep and jerking in helpless fierce inability to go farther-- and then he quivered, crying out for the first time, helpless to remain silent in his pleasure, spending inside Gimli with a hot gush and surge. His head fell forward, and he moaned, keening, but his hand did not stop pumping until Gimli also climaxed with a roar, writhing so powerfully their bodies separated with a slick and final sound.

Legolas fell onto him, the last of his furious energy spent, and Gimli slid his arms about the elf’s collapsing form, nuzzling blindly at his ear. 

They lay there for uncounted minutes in quiet, Gimli running his callused hands over the elf’s long back, aching and open… daring to hope.

At last Legolas pulled himself away, gazing down at Gimli, sober.

“I am still very angry with you, _meleth nîn_.” He raised himself with a dancer’s grace, tucking his knees under his chin to shield himself from Gimli’s gaze. His hair cascaded around his face, heartbreakingly beautiful. “I wonder if you understand why.”

Gimli swallowed hard, his throat thick with misery. “I know I should not have taken Ginnarr’s place, but--”

Legolas’s face closed even further and he reached to the side, taking up his tunic and belts. “That is not it.” He pulled the tunic over his head, swift, crisp motions revealing his agitation. “You did not take his place. Ginnarr took yours-- as my lover, yes. But also as my friend.” He arose, turning his back to pull on his breeches. “That place was left empty as well, as soon as you laid eyes upon this accursed house.”

He drew his belt about his slim hips and buckled it, making ready to leave.

“Legolas, please. I am sorry.” Gimli rose, reaching out, but hesitated to set his hand on the elf. “I would make things right. I would take my place at your side again, if you will let me.” He swallowed hard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _meleth nîn_ : My beloved


	11. Chapter 11

Legolas met Gimli’s gaze, tilting his head, considering. “Speak your piece.” He went to the fire with a taper and lit the lamps while Gimli scrambled in haste to put on his breeches and rescue his boots from among the shards of a once-elegant glass vase. He hoped Ginnarr had not been over-fond of it. 

The elf moved to sit at a low table where a board had been set out. Game-pieces for _tafl_ stood on it, ready for play, and Legolas set his hand on one of the dark pieces, advancing it to stand by a guard in the center.

Gimli’s brows rose; he surveyed the board, giving himself time to think. 

“Do you recall the first occasion on which I gave you a gift? A bead for your hair?” He did not move the white guard away from Legolas’s attack, but positioned an adjacent one instead, leaving it near enough to defend. 

“After the coronation of King Elessar.” Legolas nodded. “I remember well.”

“I gave you gifts of my making twice more.” Gimli watched Legolas block his second piece. “Do you have them still?”

“They are in my pouch.” Bold, Legolas advanced a new piece, placing it near to Gimli’s king. “I cherish them.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Gimli moved again, preparing a trap for the first soldier Legolas had placed. He took a deep breath. “Those were courtship gifts, elf. Among my people, if the offer is accepted, the bead is worn in the hair, a signal of acceptance-- or the gift is answered with a similar one, to indicate the courtship partner has interest and is listening.”

He could feel Legolas’s eyes steady on him as he raised his hand; the elf moved his piece out of jeopardy before answering. “I did not know it. And yet I kept them, and answered the third one with a gift of my own, not two months hence.” He looked away, his face set as if with pain.

Gimli frowned at him. “What gift did you offer?”

“I wove you a circlet of grasses and laid it on your blankets. You laughed at it and tossed it aside.”

Gimli exhaled in misery. “I am sorry I did not recognize it as a signal of interest. We work in metal and stone, elf, or at least in wood-- the durability of the gifts, and if things move forward, their increasing cost, indicates the constancy of the lover.” He renewed his attack, pursuing the moved piece. “I thought you made a jest of me, elf. I regret my failure to ask. I would have kept it, if I knew.” Gimli berated himself bitterly for his failing.

They made several moves in silence as Legolas considered his words. At last he nodded slowly and reached in his pouch, bringing out the silver bead-clasp Gimli had first given him. “Watch,” he commanded quietly, and braided a lock of his hair, setting the clasp at its end. Gimli watched gravely as Legolas jerked his head sharply once, twice-- and as he did so a third time, the clasp slid out of his fine hair and fell on the table. “My hair does not have the thickness or coarse texture of yours, Gimli. I could not wear it, lest it surely be lost. Your other gifts are with me as well-- I have not shot the arrowhead you forged, or lost the stone cabochon you carved.”

Gimli looked at the bead lying there, and marked that it had not been allowed to tarnish or grow dull; Legolas had handled it often. 

He moved a piece, not caring for strategy; his eyes dulled with a mist and his throat threatened to close. 

“How do elves court their mates?” He managed to force the words out. 

Legolas did not answer for a moment, studying the board and capturing the ill-moved piece, setting it aside. Then he lifted his head, proud, and his eyes burned with defiant fire. “We are simple; we do not give gifts or symbols. Instead we stay near our chosen mate, sharing our lives. It is understood, over time, what such a closeness means-- and if it is wanted, the two cleave together, unwilling to be parted for long, if ever.”

Gimli closed his eyes again in anguish. He could not have done worse if he had spat in the elf's face.

“I understand your anger. Perhaps you can understand my folly.” He stared at the board without seeing it. “I thought there was no chance of you regarding me in that way. It hurt, Legolas. I can see now you know that hurt all too well.” He resisted the urge to sweep the pieces aside in a fit of agony, and moved poorly on purpose, leaving his king open instead. 

“When I saw the _utrub amal_ were here, and that they had merged with the human house, offering exotic services under the terms of my kind… I thought to find solace in someone as like you as I might. He made a poor enough substitute. I was ashamed of myself, but it had been long, and I ached each time I looked on you. I thought you would not care.”

Legolas moved, placing the first dark piece by Gimli’s king. 

“You did not ask me to accompany you anywhere you went for many days, even when you did not go to the _utrub amal_.”

“I was bitter. I thought…” Gimli moved again, ignoring the jeopardy of his king. “I thought you would realize I desired you and feel only contempt or pity in return. I expected you to leave my side, made uncomfortable there by my unwanted feeling.”

Legolas obliged him, moving a second soldier into place by his king. 

“You did not see my desire and moved to control my leaving yourself, to force me away.”

Gimli bowed his head. “I suppose it is so. I did not think so clearly.” He left the king open with a third reckless move. 

Legolas regarded him, moving to take the bait, his eyes clear and steady. “I meant to go as soon as you returned, after ensuring you would not do yourself injury by attempting to follow.”

Gimli could not speak for a long moment; again he took refuge in the board, sliding the final defender aside, leaving his king to be captured.

“Please. Do not leave me,” he whispered. 

Legolas reached out, setting a slender finger atop one small soldier, regarding Gimli without expression. The dwarf fidgeted, beside himself with tension, until Legolas moved-- and captured his king. 

“I do not leave what is mine.” His voice was stern.

Gimli lifted the king from the board, setting it in Legolas’s hand with trembling fingers. They closed around it.

“How much damage did you do on your way in?” Legolas asked, his voice steady. 

Gimli flinched, eyes going wide.

“You cannot possibly imagine I did not hear you, Gimli.” Legolas raised a brow, his voice very dry. “It pleased me, yet I wondered how far I could trust you. I meant to see if you would take me in secret and depart without speaking, leaving me lonely.” His voice warmed for the first time. “You did not disappoint me, _meleth_.”

Gimli flushed, raising his chin with sudden pride. 

“I will not give you cause to distrust me again,” he vowed, and closed his own hand around the elf’s. 

“Find your weapons and let us leave this place,” Legolas said softly. "Together."


	12. Epilogue

It is written in the records of the _utrub amal_ that the _utrabu_ Ginnarr was paid well for his service and his guildmaster was given abundant recompense for the damage done by Gimli, son of Glóin. 

It is also written in the history of dwarvenkind that Ginnarr chose to lead a small group of his kind to Aglarond. Arriving there, he made the king a gift of a simple wooden board and pieces for playing _tafl_ , which was very well-received. 

Ginnarr was appointed guildmaster of the _utrub amal_ of Aglarond and was given a share in the profit of the mines and a lodging for his business, where he was treated with the great honor due his position. It is said that for ever after he remained a great friend of the king and his consort, the elf the dwarves call _Danakhinjam_.


End file.
